Oaks of Righteousness
by princessozmaofoz
Summary: On what seems like an ordinary Monday afternoon, tragedy strikes, and the team is forced to deal with the severe loss of one of their own. Warning: Character death
1. Prologue

_Acknowledgements: This story owes an especial debt of gratitude to my lovely fandom buddy, prosfan, who I consulted many times during the composition of this story and who provided valuable insights._

_This story was also inspired in a large part by the British riots of August 2011. Therefore, I have decided to dedicate this story to the poor people who were killed or injured in this tragedy. _

_Disclaimer: ITV owns Lewis, and I'd like to take the opportunity now to inform the show's creators now that if they try to kill/seriously hurt any of the characters in canon (as opposed to me who's merely doing it in fic), they will have a VERY angry fangirl on their hands. Also, I'm not a medical professional and thankfully have no personal experience with the manner of death described. I'm sorry if it's portrayed unrealistically or inaccurately; I did the best I could. Try to accept it as best you can for the sake of the story._

Prologue

It started out as an ordinary Monday afternoon—or at least as ordinary a Monday afternoon as one could expect for Oxford, England.

The only thing that even remotely suggested that this Monday afternoon was at all different from the rest was the unusually pleasant weather. The rain that had drenched the area for the past three days had taken a momentary halt in its quest to flood all of Britain before the end of the month, and the sun shone brightly in the sky (though weather forecasters reminded everyone that this was only a temporary respite). The temperature was surprisingly mild for late August, the sort of gentle warmth that made one want to go for a picnic and afterwards to curl up and fall asleep on a flannel blanket.

Picnics weren't exactly James Hathaway's cup of tea, however, so the sergeant had very different plans for what he'd do with the day given his druthers—plans that involved Hathaway, his Gibson L5 guitar, and the Botanic Gardens. Unfortunately, a prior commitment prevented him from carrying out these plans. Although Lewis and Hathaway were currently between cases, James had promised his friend and colleague DS Adrian Kershaw that he'd help with some fact checking for Kershaw's most recent case.

After scouring through the voluminous paperwork that Adrian had left on his desk, Hathaway found a few promising details. He left his office to find Kershaw when Chief Superintendent Innocent intercepted him in the hall.

" Have you seen Lewis anywhere?"

" Er…no, ma'am. He went out with Dr Hobson for a little while. Neither of them had any work to do at the time, so it seemed alright."

" Ah." Innocent nodded simply.

" Is there anything I can to help, ma'am?"

A strange look passed across her face, which James instantly recognized as one that never boded well for him." Actually, there is. I hadn't thought of this before, but since you offered so nicely…" The sly smile widened, and James had a feeling that he was about to regret having ever opened his mouth.

His instinct turned out to be right. " I spoke with the chief constable this morning. He was supposed to give a speech to the press today, but he woke up this morning with a massive fever. He thought about cancelling, but he really doesn't want to have to. This took a lot of time and effort to arrange. Besides which, with all the current anti-establishment sentiments, he wants to remind the public that the police _is_ on the side of peace, safety, and justice."

" I'm still not entirely sure how I fit into this."

"The chief constable e-mailed me a copy of the speech he was planning to make. I've made a few minor improvements, and I think it's ready to be presented. We leave in an hour."

" You want me to make a speech?"

The expression on her face was just as flabbergasted and horror-struck as he suspected the expression on his own face was. " Good God, no! That would be a fiasco. No, _I'm _going to be the one making the speech. It's…it's just…there'll be a brief question and answer session afterward. There's a good chance the press will bring up the Patterson case again, and well, I'd like someone there who handled the case directly to help answer a few of their questions."

He stared at her closely, still half-convinced this was some sort of joke. " I really don't think this is a good idea, ma'am. I'm not very good at speaking in front of large groups."

" It won't be a large group—only twenty or so people."

Hathaway fought the temptation to inform Innocent that he considered " twenty or so people" to be a large group. " But … but…I've never been part of a press conference before," he protested—though he suspected these excuses would be insufficient. The chief superintendent appeared to have already decided that Hathaway was coming with her, and the sergeant knew from experience, that once Jean Innocent had made up her mind, it was practically impossible to persuade her to change it.

" It's hardly a press conference, James. There'll only be time for maybe five or so questions before we have to leave."

" Still, I should think you'd want someone more polished. I have no real experience with this sort of thing."

" And what better way to gain the experience that you need than through practice? After all, you'll have give press conferences fairly regularly when you make inspector."

" I thought you said this wasn't a press conference," he teased.

" It's not," She saw the incredulous look he was giving her and revised her opinion. " Well, all right… I suppose one _might_ call it a press conference, but I can promise you that it'll be brief and relatively stress-free. And remember…I'll be right here to help you the whole time."

He sighed. " I don't really have a choice in this—do I?"

She smiled slightly. " It's for your own good, and as you've always risen to any and every occasion in the past, I have full confidence that you'll do brilliantly. And even if you don't, it's hardly the end of the world. The absolute worst that could happen is that you'll be asked a few questions that you're unsure of how to answer."

If only they'd known just how mistaken she was in assuming this. If only they'd had some slight inclination that something far more terrible than difficult questions and obnoxious journalists awaited them.

But how could they have possibly fathomed the catastrophe that would soon transpire? How could they possibly have imagined that "the unanswerable questions" that would characterize this event had nothing to do with a previous case—albeit a very difficult and disturbing previous case?

In their eyes, it was just as ordinary a Monday afternoon as one could expect for Oxford, England.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

A scattering of polite applause greeted the end of Innocent's speech. Only Hathaway clapped hard—partly because he felt Innocent truly deserved the recognition for such a well-delivered speech, but mostly because he knew that the longer the applause went on, the fewer questions he'd have time to answer.

He supposed this was selfish of him, but he found it very difficult not to be selfish in this beautiful weather. James could think of a million things he'd rather he be doing than answering a bunch of stupid questions for a pack of snot-nosed journalists.

At least, he was outside. From the very beginning, the chief constable had planned to make his speech here—on the banks of the Cherwell, about 20 yards from Magdalen Bridge—and Innocent had chosen to honour this request when she'd agreed to give the address in his place.

From where he stood, Hathaway could see punters passing by every so often, and whenever he did, he'd feel another sharp surge of envy for those lucky enough to do what they pleased with the day.

When the applause finally died down, Innocent cleared her throat and spoke again." I'd now like to invite you to ask any questions you may have. My colleague, Detective Sergeant Hathaway," she indicated James, who gave a very forced smile in response, " and I will try to answer them to the best of our abilities." " Er…yes, I think I see a hand there in the back. Do you have a question Mr…"

" …Kirke from _The Oxford Mail. _And yes, I do have a question. A source has informed me that the Oxfordshire Police has had to make some recent budget cuts, and what I'd like to know is exactly which departments are suffering?"

" I'd hardly say anyone is 'suffering' on account of the budget cuts."

" Speak for yourself," James muttered under his breath. It was growing increasingly more difficult for Lewis and Hathaway to solve cases now that Innocent could only afford to fast-track a few forensics tests.

Either Innocent hadn't heard this or she merely chose to ignore it, " A few officers, myself included, have had to take slight pay cuts, and we've also had to limit the amount we can pay for overtime hours. But we haven't had to let anyone go."

" So it _is_ a possibility that some officers will be getting the sack?"

Innocent drew herself up imperiously. "Not at this point in time," she replied coolly, and Hathaway smirked at the profound disappointment on Kirke's face. It was always so refreshing to see the chief superintendent make a fool of someone other than Hathaway himself.

" But it's possible that this may happen in the future?" This question came from an attractive female reporter who appeared to be in her mid-twenties.

" It's highly improbable, but technically possible," Innocent admitted reluctantly. "I can however assure you that _if_ it should come to that, it won't happen any time soon. And we though there will be fewer of us in number, the police will continue to work for the safety and security of this city."

" Safety and security?" a new voice laughed cruelly from the crowd. "When have your lot ever looked out for our 'safety and security?'"

Hathaway looked for the source of the voice and saw a man standing slightly apart from the group. Apart from the red spiral notebook and pen in his hand, the man didn't look much like a journalist. For one thing, he was far too young—looked like he was still in school in fact. For another thing, the gleam in his eyes was beyond passionate; it was far closer to fanatical than anything else. All in all, there was a frightening intensity about him that made Hathaway shudder.

The sergeant tapped Innocent on the shoulder, and whispered in her ear. "Ma'am, I think we should go; we're running behind schedule as it is."

" Do you honestly think I'm going to let one disgruntled citizen scare me off? You know I'm made of stronger stuff, James; I'd never have made it this far in life otherwise." She returned her attention to the man. " What exactly is it you're asking, sir? The Oxfordshire Police has always looked out for the welfare of our people. It's our first priority."

" What I'm asking is how you plan to protect the people of Oxford when you can't even protect yourself."

" Pardon?"

It all happened in a flash: the young man throwing his notebook to the ground and removing a small pistol from his pocket, the loud, unmistakeable bang of the gunshot, the shooter shoving the gun back into his pocket and sprinting away from the crowd. Hathaway was about to run after him when he heard a loud thud next to him and turned to see that Innocent was now lying on the thick carpet of grass. For a moment, the sergeant waited for the chief superintendent to get back on her feet. Then, he saw droplets of crimson liquid beading on the skin just above her chest. All thoughts of catching the shooter disappeared from Hathaway's mind; the only thing that mattered was that Innocent was now bleeding profusely.

Hathaway instantly removed his mobile from his jacket pocket and called for an ambulance. Then, he sent the same text message to Lewis and Hobson: " Madgalen Bridge. Now. URGENT!" He supposed he could have clarified, but he wanted to refocus his attention on Innocent. He knelt beside her and grabbed hold of her hand." How are you feeling?"

" Ghastly. Well I suppose that's fairly obvious, but still…"

Her grip on his hand suddenly became vise-like, and he realized just how much pain she must be in right now. " Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

" I don't think so. The pain's not that bad really." She grimaced and let out an involuntary moan. "Well, maybe it is ' that bad,' but still…I've had worse. This is still nothing compared to childbirth."

For all Hathaway knew, that may or may not have been true. But there was still a crucial difference: she'd survived childbirth, and he was starting to doubt she was going to survive this. Her face, already sheet-white, was growing still paler by the second, and blood continued to gush out of her chest at regular intervals.

He looked at her for a long moment and, for the first time, saw just how small she really was. Hathaway suddenly realized that the chief superintendent couldn't have been any taller than five feet, five inches (not counting the extra inch or so of height that high heels added.)

Was Innocent _really_ almost a full foot shorter than Hathaway himself was? It seemed impossible. Her personality had always made her seem far larger and far more intimidating than that. But now the evidence was right in front of him. She was truthfully quite small; in fact, she appeared to be shrinking with each passing moment.

How much longer was it going to take the ambulance to get here? Come to think of it, how long had it been since James had called for one? Time had seemed to stand still from the moment he'd heard the gunshot, a tragic irony since time had never been more important than it was now.

She wasn't going to last much longer without help; that much was clear. Humans could only afford to lose so much blood, and Jean had already lost a great deal.

" Actually…there… there is something you can do," Innocent said finally after a long silence had passed.

" Anything, you want, Jean, _anything._"

" Promise me you'll…" she began and then seemed to realize something. " You called me 'Jean.'"

" I…" He was taken aback. He hadn't even noticed until she had pointed it out. Somehow, in the past few minutes, she'd stopped being "Ma'am" and had become "Jean." Far more likely, she'd been "Jean" all along, and he'd just been too blind to see it.

" Yeah, I…I did. I'm sorry…" He instinctively let go of her hand, realizing that she probably saw that as unprofessional behaviour as well.

" Don't be. It just took me by surprise; that's all. "

" There was something you needed me to do…"

Innocent gave a slight nod." I need you to keep talking."

" About what?"

" _Anything_— politics,film, literature, history, childhood pets. Just_ something. _I…I need … a distraction."

He could certainly believe that, but he felt he owed her something more personal than any of those things. " Do…do you remember the day we met? It was a few days before you officially started as chief superintendent."

" I think so. Strange wanted to give me a tour of the station and to personally introduce me to all of my colleagues."

" That's right. Well, from the moment you walked into Knox's office, I knew you weren't going to be at all what I had expected."

" What had you been anticipating?"

" Old, fat, a unibrow, a moustache."

She looked at him confusedly." You thought I'd have a moustache? Exactly how old did you think I was?"

" Pretty damned old, but it's worse than that, I'm afraid. I…I thought you'd be a man."

Innocent looked as though she desperately wanted to laugh, but the pain in her chest must have prevented her from doing so." A man?"

" Yeah, it seems so silly now—doesn't it? Strange never referred to you by your first name. It was always 'Innocent' or ' 'your new chief superintendent.' Somehow, I got it into my head that your first name was the French masculine '_Jean_' like Jean Valjean or something. I was half- afraid that I wouldn't be able to understand a word you'd say on account of the thick accent I was sure you'd have."

" Were…you…were you disappointed?"

" Hmm?"

" Are you at all disappointed that I'm not a man?"

" No."

" You can be honest, James. I swear I won't hold it against you."

" I _am_ being honest. If you were a man, you wouldn't be _you_, Jean. You wouldn't be the brave, stubborn, brilliant, _wonderful _person that you are. Besides, do you really think I'd rather have some weird man with a unibrow who curses at me in French whenever I do something wrong?"

" As opposed to me who curses at you in English." She sighed. "Cursing and complaining—those were probably the two things I did best as chief superintendent. It's a pity; you deserved better."

" Don't be thick. You're a fantastic chief super and an even better friend."

Innocent gave a weak smile. "You're a great man, James Hathaway, and more importantly, you're a _good_ one as well. I'm lucky to have known you. I'm…I'm sorry that we won't get to serve with each other anymore."

What did she mean by that? The ambulance would be here if she could only hold on for a little bit longer, and the medics would be able to save her. _Wouldn't they?_

To reassure himself, he carefully placed a hand on the back of her wrist. He found a vein and could just barely make out a pulse. Weak as the pulse was, it gave him some comfort, knowing that she was still with him—for now at least. But he couldn't deny that the time that passed between each beat was gradually and consistently increasing. Her heart was slowing down, and as he had no real medical training, there was nothing he could do to prevent this.

" Say goodbye to everyone for me—Robbie especially. Say that I'm sorry for yelling at him so much and apologize to the chief constable too while you're at it—for my not being able to keep the scandal out of the papers."

If the circumstances were less grave, Hathaway might have found this last sentence humorous. How very like Innocent—to be far more concerned about the way the press would interpret her death than she was about the death itself.

" I will, Jean; I promise. Is there anything else you need me to do?"

" Let my husband know how it happened. And…and… tell …him… I… love him."

Hathaway nodded. " I'm sure he already knows, but I will; you can count on it."

" Thank…you… and… James?"

" Yes?"

" Goodbye." Innocent gently closed her eyes and became completely still. After a few moments, Hathaway could no longer feel any pulse at all.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Although the realization was agonizing, James soon became aware that he could no longer deny the evidence of all his senses. Innocent's wrist, of which the sergeant still had hold, was now limp, and Hathaway knew it would only be a matter of hours before it began to stiffen—before the process of _rigor mortis _began.

_Rigor _was literally translated as " stiffness," but Hathaway found the English derivation far more appropriate in these circumstances. " Rigorous"—meaning " severe," "difficult," " demanding," "harsh." _Rigor Mortis: _the severity of death, rather than the stiffness.

The strange thing was that Jean herself wasn't manifesting any such severity; it was those who'd cared about her and whom she'd cared about (James among them) who'd truly feel the harshness of her passing.

She looked so peaceful that if he hadn't known better—if he weren't able to see the bloodstains, perhaps—he might have suspected she was sleeping. But though her eyes were gently closed and her form still, he could see no reassuringly periodic rise and fall of her chest—for her heart can and would beat no more.

He suddenly released that he couldn't hold on to her forever—emotionally or even physically. He forced himself to release his grasp on her wrist, but he found that trying to ignore his thoughts only further cemented their presence in his mind. He eventually allowed himself to surrender to them, letting the tears fall openly as he reflected on this woman and on how much she'd meant to him.

James suddenly became aware of several bright flashes of light nearby, and his sorrow was temporarily replaced by white- hot anger. They were taking _pictures!_ For the first time, Hathaway truly understood why Jean had so hated the press. They really were vultures, gorging themselves on Innocent's misfortune because it made for a juicy front-page story.

How much longer would Jean have to suffer? Weren't the dead supposed to be respected—_revered _even? Surely, after what she'd been through, she deserved some privacy, but the media weren't going to let her have it.

Although it was the absolute last thing she'd have wanted, they'd make a martyr of her—the innocent (in more than just name) cruelly slain for defending integrity and security. Overexposure would soon rob the situation of its tragedy; people would remember her for her death—not her life. Statesmen would try to use her demise for their own advantages, overtly implying that this was somehow the fault of their political adversaries. Her virtues would be extolled _ad nauseum_ by journalists who believed they had known the "real" Jean Innocent.

Well, they hadn't. Even after over five years of serving under Innocent, James wasn't even sure that he himself had truly known her. After all, the vast majority of their conversations had been connected to work directly: the sergeant explaining why the case wasn't solved yet and the chief superintendent sighing in frustration at the lack of progress; Innocent shouting at Hathaway and Lewis because one of them had made a procedural _faux pas; _Jean rolling her eyes whenever James made a facetious comment. That wasn't to say Innocent had been all head and no heart; she'd revealed herself to have a softer side as well.

Hathaway thought of the time when he'd asked Innocent's advice during the Simon Monkford case—the way the chief superintendent had given him her full attention from the start, the compassion in her eyes which had revealed a sincere and profound concern both for Lewis and for Hathaway himself. After James finished explaining, Innocent had dared him to put his personal and professional relationship with Lewis to the test, and in urging the sergeant to confront his worst fears head-on, her confidence in him and in the strength of his partnership with Lewis had been manifested clearly. She must have somehow sensed that Lewis and Hathaway's friendship was far stronger than they'd had initially assumed, must have somehow known that the respect and admiration each of them felt for his partner was mutual and genuine.

This was the Jean Innocent whose memory Hathaway would cherish: stubborn and irritable admittedly, but also intuitive, empathetic, and benevolent.

The little that James had known of Innocent he'd admired and respected, but there was still so much of her life that he hadn't known—so much of _her_ that remained an enigma to him. He knew she had been married; some sunlight was reflecting off her golden wedding band even now. However, Hathaway suddenly realized that he'd never once thought to ask her about her family. James didn't even know Mr Innocent's first name, let alone what sort of man Jean's husband was.

The sergeant also had a vague memory of the chief superintendent once mentioning a son, who was a DC with the Northamptonshire Police. Was he Jean's only child, or did he have siblings? If so, what were their occupations, ages, names?

Mere moments before, James had referred Jean as his "friend," but he was now aware of just how presumptuous he had been to say that. What sort of friend could he really have been to her if he knew next to nothing about her home life?

Come to think of it, Hathaway didn't really know very much about Innocent's professional life either, apart from what he'd directly observed. He knew that she'd come to Oxford to replace Strange as chief superintendent, but he had no idea of just where she'd come _from_: where she'd grown up, where she'd attended university, the station or stations where she'd previously served.

The thought then occurred to him that—as inconceivable as it may have seemed—Innocent hadn't always been a chief superintendent. At one time, she'd been an inspector and before that a detective sergeant like Hathaway himself. Once, Innocent had been the one receiving commands rather than the one giving them.

James wondered what Innocent's old inspector had been like. Had he called her "Sergeant" or " Jean?" Had he been cold and unapproachable like Hathaway's old inspector Knox, or had he been warm-hearted and genuine like Lewis? Had they kept in touch after she'd been promoted, or had their relationship soured—assuming it had been cordial in the first place? Would he have willingly died for her and she for him, the way it was with Lewis and Hathaway? Had her inspector even been a " he" at all?

What had initially led Innocent to join the police? James had a very hard time imagining Jean as the sort of little girl, who'd fantasized about slapping handcuffs on other people for a living. She seemed the type who would've envisioned for herself something far safer, far more financially rewarding, and far more practical. Yet, for reasons that remained vague to Hathaway, she'd chosen the police, and in doing so, she'd unknowingly ensured her own cruel and premature death.

There were so many things Hathaway should have asked Innocent while he'd had the chance. He'd always assumed that there'd be plenty of opportunities for him to ask such questions—that they could take their time getting to know each other. He should have known better.

Part of what James found so admirable about his profession was that cops were willing to risk their own health and safety every day for the greater good of the community. To police officers, danger—like endless paperwork and sleepless nights—was just another occupational hazard. Upon reflection, Hathaway realized that he should consider himself lucky. In his eight-and-a-half years on the force, no one particularly close to him had been killed in the line of duty—_until now_.

True, Jean was the first colleague and friend James had lost, but would she be the last? As heart breaking as the thought was, Hathaway knew it would be naïve of him not to accept this very real possibility.

What if…what if it was Robbie next? James could see it happening all too easily. After all, the inspector wasn't exactly in the prime of his life, much as he might try to deny it, and his health had started its steady decline. What was more, Lewis was an extraordinarily noble person, one who wouldn't hesitate to risk life and limb in an attempt to protect someone. The two factors—age and selflessness—were each dangerous enough on their own, but in combination, they could certainly prove lethal.

James swore to himself that he wouldn't let it come to this, but he soon realized the extent of his foolishness in doing so. After all, he'd failed so many times already. Will McEwan, Crevecoeur Hall, the Zelinsky case—each came flooding back to him in hauntingly vivid detail. And, further proof of his insufficiency was lying –still, pale, and lifeless—on the grass beside him.

There was a loud ringing in his ear, which Hathaway initially attributed to grief and perceived guilt distorting his state of mind. It wasn't until after he'd become aware of the flashing blue lights that he realized that he hadn't been imagining the noise. According to Hathaway's watch, the paramedics were only ten minutes behind schedule, but the ambulance had still been, quite literally, a lifetime too late.

" Flat tyre," said one of the paramedics when he reached Hathaway, as though that somehow excused his tardiness—as though Jean Innocent was somehow less important than a little rubber wheel. " Is this her—then?" he asked turning to Hathaway.

The sergeant nodded grimly, but didn't say anything in response. It was as though he no longer trusted himself to speak.

The medical team knelt down and quickly checked Innocent's vital signs. " Oi," said an ambulance technician with a particularly thick Scottish brogue, " I think we're going to need a body bag for this one."

Although Hathaway had known all along that this was in store, the stark finality of it all still pained him—both physically and emotionally. It was almost as though James—and not Jean—was the one who'd taken a bullet to the chest.

Her death seemed to have robbed her not only of life—but also of identity. According to the medical team, she was just another corpse who needed to be placed in a body bag. By this time next week, hers would be just another grave in an already-overcrowded cemetery.

She deserved so much better than that: honour, respect, recognition— though not of the put-upon, extravagantly sensationalized varieties that the press would try to give her. Hathaway supposed that all he could really do was swear that he'd always remember Innocent just as she had been in life. Although the media would claim otherwise, Jean hadn't been an angel; she'd had her flaws—obstinacy and a short temper chief among them. But these very imperfections had been part of what had made her so loveable. Yes, she'd been admirably brave, witty, sensible, clever, and dedicated—but she'd also been wonderfully and incurably _human_.

James couldn't bear to watch the medics placing Innocent into the body bag so he carefully removed himself from the action, walking over to sit beside the river. He wished he could appreciate the loveliness of the scene, but in light of all that happened, he knew this was impossible. Earlier in the day, the radiant, golden sun and bright blue sky had seemed so full of promises; if only, he'd only known in advance just how false those promises were going to prove.

If only it had been hotter, colder, foggier, cloudier, or rainier today, the speech might have been cancelled or, at the very least, rescheduled. If only the weather hadn't been so damned _perfect_, Jean Innocent might still be alive.

The sergeant watched the punters as they passed him and listened to them as they laughed merrily, delighted to be out in the glorious sunshine. Hathaway envied them with every fibre of his being. He'd have given anything to join them—to be happy and relaxed and carefree once more. James wondered vaguely when—_if_—he'd feel that way again.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see the female journalist who'd questioned Innocent earlier. The young woman held out a red spiral notebook to James.

" I…er…the shooter dropped this before he fled the scene. I thought you should have it; it could prove useful."

Hathaway took the notebook from her. " Thanks." He was rather surprised that she was giving it to him willingly; she was after all a member of the press, and this notebook was a bit of physical evidence that could prove invaluable to any story she might write on this event.

" I've already looked through it myself and made all necessary notes," she said in response to his unanswered question.

Well, Hathaway supposed he couldn't have exactly have denied her that. After all, he himself had completely forgotten about the notebook the moment the gun had sounded.

The reporter twirled a lock of curly blonde hair around her finger as she spoke. "I'm sorry about…all this. Were you…were you close to her?"

" Yeah." The answer was so automatic that it was nearly involuntary.

" Do…do you want to talk about it?"

" Is that what this is, then? You making nice so that I'll give you an interview for your stupid little story?" he shouted, another sudden inexplicable surge of anger coursing through him.

" No, I just thought you might like an opportunity to vent; I know I would. And I can assure you that this would be off-the-record."

_Off-the-Record? _That was a laugh. Nothing was " off-the-record" with _these _people. He thought of the way that all the journalists—this one included—had been perfectly willing to throw Innocent to the dogs before the shooting, interrogating the chief superintendent mercilessly about budget cuts. And after Jean's death, the photographers had been falling over each other, trying to get a decent picture of her body.

" I'm not interested," Hathaway said emphatically.

The journalist shrugged. " Suit yourself," she said and departed.

After she'd gone, James opened the red notebook and glanced down at the first page where a message was scrawled in barely legible penmanship.

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_ I bore no grudge against this individual. She might have been any other; it would have made no difference to me. It is the corruption for which she stands that it is the true abomination. Viva England! Death to all those who threaten her glory! Down with Parliament and down with the police!_

The sergeant studied this passage closer and noticed that the "s" in the word "she" wherever it appeared was written in blue ink unlike the rest of the message, which was composed in black. It was clear that these letters had been added later. The shooter must have originally planned to assassinate the chief constable but had been forced to change his masculine pronouns into feminine ones when Innocent had arrived in her superior officer's place. The shooter obviously hadn't cared too much about the switch; as he had indicated, it made no difference to him.

Hathaway skimmed through the rest of the notebook, which appeared to be a lengthy anarchist manifesto about the various evils of the British government, before ultimately closing the book. The sergeant wasn't sure exactly what to feel about what he had just learned. On one hand, he was slightly relieved that Jean's murder had turned out not to be the result of a personal vendetta—for he still couldn't and didn't want to imagine any reason why someone would've wanted her dead.

But on the other hand, the sergeant felt revolted and horrified at the thought that anyone could be callous enough to commit murder solely to make a statement. Not that murder was _ever _justifiable—both religious and secular law made that fact crystal clear. But it had never seemed quite so totally unjustifiable than it did right now. All along, the shooter had sought to make Innocent his pawn, to reduce her to a mere playing piece for his political games. And the press was going to attempt the same thing, under a guise of altruism.

Suddenly, Hathaway found himself consumed with a savage desire to throw the notebook into the river, so he wouldn't have to see it anymore—wouldn't have to think about the sentiments expressed in it and about the tragedy those sentiments had provoked. However, he knew that this was the only real physical evidence he possessed, so he reluctantly decided to keep the notebook.

He glanced around him and noticed that the press was now leaving the scene, and the sound of ambulance sirens indicated the paramedics' departure as well. Miserable and alone, James Hathaway again did exactly what someone in a state of total despair is expected to do. He cried.

* * *

><p>As Inspector Lewis pulled the car over the side of the road so that the ambulance could pass, he could feel his heart pounding. The emergency vehicle had come from the very direction in which he was headed, and he couldn't help but shake off the feeling that it had come specifically from Magdalen Bridge.<p>

_Magdalen Bridge. Now. URGENT!_ Lewis had no idea as to what his sergeant had been referring when he'd sent that message, but the inspector was taking this message extremely seriously. True, James was a bit of a jokester, but he was never facetious about things that were genuinely important. Robbie was completely sure that whatever had happened or currently was happening at Magdalen Bridge was extremely "urgent," quite possibly urgent enough to require the presence of an ambulance. The inspector was struck once again with the fear that the ambulance had been called to Magdalen Bridge on behalf of his sergeant—that Hathaway had been badly injured…or…or _worse._

' _Let him be alright. I don't know what I'd do without him. He's my best friend in the world—one of the few people I can always count on. He makes me laugh when I feel like crying, and he doesn't judge when I do cry. He's not afraid to correct me when I'm in the wrong and praise me when I'm in the right. Hell, sometimes I feel like he's the inspector and I'm the sergeant. He's taught me far more than I've taught him. I __**need**__ him, and I'm far from the only one. Laura, Jean, his parents, the whole bloody station…they adore him too and rely on him. So, please, let him be okay.'_ Lewis wasn't sure whether he was speaking to Fate, himself, or the God in whom he'd thought he no longer believed.

Robbie felt a hand on his knee and glanced over momentarily at Laura who was seated beside him in the car. " I'm sure James is fine," she said as though she had read his mind.

" Yeah," he said. " You're probably right," though he still wasn't totally convinced. Lewis got back on the road and continued driving until he reached his destination. As he crossed the bridge, he was just barely able to make out a tall, lanky figure standing on the opposite bank. James? Lewis wasn't completely sure, but he continued hoping.

After crossing the bridge, the inspector searched until he found a safe place to park the car. Once he had, he and Laura exited the vehicle and sprinted to the place where the man was still standing. Hearing them approaching, the figure turned and, in doing so, revealed himself to be James Hathaway. And for the first time since receiving his sergeant's text message, Inspector Lewis breathed easily. With Laura at his heels, Robbie ran over to James.

" We were on the other side of town when we got your message. We came as quickly as we could," Hobson said.

" Thanks," Hathaway replied, almost robotically. His eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused.

Lewis placed a hand on his sergeant's shoulder. " I'm glad to know that you're alright."

James gave a very hollow laugh and shook off Robbie's arm. " 'Alright' isn't exactly the word I'd use."

" Well, that you're unhurt at any rate. I was so worried when I got your text." Hathaway merely shrugged in response, so Lewis tried again. " Do you… do you want to tell us what happened?"

Hathaway shook his head, and Lewis could have sworn he'd heard the other man give a slight sniffle. The inspector looked closer and noticed that Hathaway's eyes were brimming over with tears. Almost instinctively, Robbie withdrew his mobile from his jacket pocket.

" What are you doing?"

" Calling Innocent to tell her you're not coming back to the station."

" There's no need for you to do that."

" You can't tell me that you're thinking of going back in this state? You've obviously had a brutal day; I can tell just by looking at you."

" No, I'm not going back there…not _now _anyway."

Lewis took a moment to contemplate what his sergeant meant by that particular remark: "not _now_ anyway." Was it possible that James didn't know when he was returning to work or even _if _he was returning? And if Hathaway really was contemplating leaving the force, shouldn't the chief super be informed?

" Then, why don't you want me to call?" the inspector asked finally.

" There's no need to call, because she's not going to be getting the message anytime soon."

" Has she lost her phone or something? Or is she ill perhaps? "

" She's not ill, and she hasn't lost her phone."

" Then, what?"

James took several deep breaths before speaking again. "Jean's…._dead_, Robbie."

Lewis could feel his jaw literally dropping. Jean—Jean _Innocent?_ Why, she wasn't even fifty and was in prime health. People like that just didn't drop dead suddenly of their own accord. Which must mean….that she hadn't just died but had been _killed—_killed by something or maybe even some_**one.**_

The inspector thought with regret of all the jokes he'd made about murdering Innocent if she made him sit through yet-another lecture. He'd never have gone through with it, of course; although the chief superintendent's unhealthy obsession with procedure had often driven him mad, Robbie had genuinely liked her as a person. Yes, Jean Innocent had been strict, but she'd also been hardworking, clever, reliable, and kind.

" Dead?" The question came not from Lewis but from Hobson, of whom both Robbie and James had temporarily forgotten. " I…I don't believe it."

" I can't say I blame you. If I hadn't….hadn't seen it for myself, I wouldn't believe it either."

" 'Hadn't seen it for yourself?'" Lewis asked as a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him. "James, you…you weren't here when … when it happened—were you?"

The detective sergeant nodded grimly, and then, in between massive, gaping sobs, he relayed to them the entire story.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_A Few Hours Later_

Lewis parked the car on the side of the road and then turned his sergeant." Are you sure you want to do this?"

" Of course, I don't _want_ to do it, but I _have_ to."

" No, you don't, James. It has to be done, but it doesn't have to be _you_ that does it. Why don't you just wait in the car, and I'll get everything settled? Your day's been hard enough already, and this will only make things worse."

Hathaway sighed." I know it'll just make me feel worse, but I have to do it anyway. I…I promised her. Besides, if Mr Innocent is anything like …like Jean was, he'll want a thorough, detailed account of the story from start to finish. And you just can't provide that."

Lewis accepted this logic, though he didn't particularly like it. " You don't mind if I stay with you, though—do you? For moral support."

" _Mind_? I was planning on asking you anyway. I know I can't do this alone. Good God, I'm…I'm not even sure that I can do it at all. But I've got to try anyway."

Robbie nodded, but didn't say anything. The two of them unfastened their seatbelts and exited the car. As they slowly approached the house, Lewis could heat his sergeant's breathing rate rapidly accelerating. Hathaway was also trembling so badly that he might have tripped over the doorstep, if Lewis hadn't grabbed him by the shoulders just in time.

" Thanks, sir."

" I've got your back, Jim. Always have and always will. You can count on it."

Hathaway gave a half-smile and then carefully walked up the step to the front door. After taking a deep breath, the sergeant knocked and waited.

"Perhaps no one's home?" James said when no one answered the door right away.

But Hathaway knew that this was just a vain hope. He could see a car in the driveway—a black Aston Martin in mint condition. It was truly a beautiful vehicle, and if circumstances were different, the sergeant would have envied its owner tremendously. But in the light of all that happened, Hathaway wouldn't have traded places with Mr Innocent for a hundred Aston Martins.

The door eventually opened, revealing a tall, silver-haired man who appeared to be in his early fifties. Hathaway withdrew his badge from his pocket and wordlessly showed it to the older man. It was clear that Mr Innocent had understood why the police were here the moment he'd opened the door. This was the only thing that would have explained his strange composure. Although Lewis could see the devastation written across the other man's face, Mr Innocent showed no signs of confusion or anxiety. If the inspector were to guess, he'd say that Jean's husband had always suspected that this day might come and had done his best to prepare for it in advance.

Robbie supposed this was probably true of all officers' spouses. He remembered coming home from his traffic duty shift one night, about a year-and-a-half into his marriage with Val, to find his wife in tears.

_He walked over and enveloped her in his arms. " It's okay, Pet. I'm here."_

_This only made Val sob harder. Her apparent distress at his presence greatly disturbed Robbie. He'd always known that he didn't deserve her; she was far too beautiful and intelligent for the likes of him. He had wondered if Val was now regretting her decision to marry an ordinary policeman when she might have done so much better._

_Nervously, Lewis finally built up enough courage to ask his wife what was wrong. _

" _Doctor's appointment" was her only reply._

" _Was he able to prescribe something for your stomach flu, then?" he asked as he gently stroked her hair. " I was so worried about you this morning. You ran straight to the toilet first thing and spent the next twenty minutes vomiting."_

" _He wasn't able to prescribe anything."_

" _What rubbish! We'll find you a better doctor soon, Pet. I can promise you that!"_

" _He wasn't able to prescribe anything, because I don't have the stomach flu."_

" _Then, what…"_

_Val gently released herself from his embrace." Morning sickness, Robbie."_

_It took awhile for the information to sink in. " You mean you're…you're…"_

_She nodded. "Pregnant? Yeah, about a month along, according to the doctor."_

_Robbie wanted to shout for joy—to proclaim his good news to the world, but he stopped when he glanced over and saw the profusion of tears still leaking from his wife's lovely eyes." Val…this…this baby. It's not making you unhappy—is it?"_

_ She shook her head and gave a sad little smile. " No, it's exactly what I wanted. I've been hoping and praying for this for ages," she said as she gently rubbed her still-flat abdomen._

" _Then, why are you crying?"_

" _After my appointment, I went to the grocery store. I was waiting for the cash register, and I started talking to the woman behind me in the queue. She was very pregnant—at least six months from what I could tell. I naturally congratulated her and shared my own good news. And do you know what she told me, Robbie? Her husband was a fireman, and he was at that blaze in Jericho last week."_

_Robbie nodded. He'd heard a great deal about that particular fire at work. The police suspected that it had been the work of an arsonist, and it had resulted in several casualties—civilian and fire fighter alike. _

" _Well, he…he never came home, and the woman said that the saddest part for her was knowing that he'd never get to meet his son or daughter. I've been thinking about her all day, and I just realized that the woman could very easily be me. That one day __**you**__ might not come back to me. That you might not get a chance to be a father to this baby or maybe to other babies as well. I've told myself I need to accept the possibility; I need to prepare myself in case it should happen. That's what I've been trying to do all day, and Robbie…I …don't think I can do it. I don't think I can carry on without you."_

_Lewis suspected that nothing he could have said would have helped, so he merely held his wife in his arms until her tears slowed._

Fortunately, Val's worst nightmare hadn't come true. Robbie had been there when this child, a daughter nearly as pretty as her mother, arrived and when their next child, a strong, handsome son, was born as well. He'd been there to watch the beautiful babies grow into beautiful men and women. But Val had never truly gotten over her fear of losing her husband. Several nights he'd come home late and find her already in bed, her cheeks stained with dry tear tracts and her pillow slightly damp. When Robbie would wake her to ask what was wrong, she'd explained that she'd been "practicing" living her life without him. It was extremely ironic; Val had spent so much time preparing for his death, but Robbie had never thought to prepare for hers.

He'd always been so sure that he'd go first, not only because of his dangerous occupation but also because his family had a history of premature heart disease. He'd never imagined that his and Val's positions would be reversed—that he was the one who should have " practiced" living his life without her.

A voice returned Lewis's attention back to the present. " Come inside," Jean's now-widowed husband said quietly, and the two detectives followed him into the house. Once they'd reached the sitting room, Mr Innocent invited Lewis and Hathaway to sit down on the sofa, while he briefly left the room. Mr Innocent returned a few moments later with a pitcher of iced water and four glasses, accompanied by a tall, slender man, who appeared to be in his early twenties.

" My son Chris," Mr Innocent said as he set down the pitcher and glasses on a coffee table. " He's visiting from Northamptonshire."

Lewis studied the young man carefully as he extended his hand. For the most part, Chris Innocent was a younger version of his father; they shared similar colouring and the same patrician features, but Chris had his mother's eyes.

" Hey, Chris. I'm Detective Inspector Lewis, and this is my partner Detective Sergeant Hathaway. We worked with your mum."

" What do you mean ' _worked_' with?" Chris asked somewhat frantically. " Don't you still?"

" I'm…I'm afraid not."

" So…so, she's…she's _dead?_" Chris asked as Lewis nodded soberly. The younger man sank into an emerald armchair and buried his head in his hands. Mr Innocent, meanwhile, started pouring water into each of the cups. He handed the first to his son, the second to Lewis, the third to Hathaway, and the fourth to himself. James drank as though he had not hydrated in days, draining his glass completely in a single gulp. Having worked with a seasoned alcoholic for over ten years, Robbie immediately recognized this particular mannerism. It was the hallmark of extreme pervasive stress and the actions that accompanied it could prove highly dangerous if they weren't carefully monitored. Lewis made a mental note to keep a close watch on his sergeant tonight in order to ensure that James didn't exhibit similar behaviour with stronger beverages.

After a long tense, silence, Hathaway spoke tentatively, pausing every so often to swallow the lump building up in his throat. " She was…she was making a speech when it happened. Only it wasn't supposed to be her originally…the chief constable was supposed to do it, but he…he got sick. She asked me to come with her."

" Where?" Mr Innocent asked as he carefully sat down in another armchair beside his son.

" The bank of the Cherwell. Not far from Magdalen Bridge. We...we could see the punters every so often. Anyway, after she'd made the speech, the press started…started asking some difficult questions, which she answered as best she could. Until… until…this one man spoke up and asked her how she planned to protect the people of Oxford when she couldn't even protect herself. Then, he…he took out a gun…and he…well…he shot her…right then and there in front of everyone before he fled the scene."

" Did you get him?" Innocent's son asked.

" Er…no, actually… I was the only other officer there at the time, and my main concern was Jean." Hathaway suddenly realized just how foolish this had been of him. He'd been absolutely no help to Innocent by staying with her, but he might have been able to catch her killer if he'd left her side for even a moment. " I called for an ambulance and wanted to wait with her until it arrived. Unfortunately, by the time it finally did… she…she was already gone."

" So...you just stood there and watched my mother die? What sort of pathetic excuse for a cop are you?" Hathaway found the disdain in Chris Innocent's eyes twice as painful as it would have been ordinarily, because the eyes in question were precisely the same shade that Jean's had been.

"Chris," Mr Innocent said gently. " I'm sure Sgt Hathaway did all that he could."

James nodded." I wanted to do more—believe me—but I have no medical training; I was scared I'd make everything worse…"

" How hard could it possibly be to take a bullet out? I've seen it done plenty of times," the younger man responded callously, and Hathaway suddenly remembered that Jean's son was also on the force. " Haven't _you_—or are you too weak-stomached to handle the sight of a little blood?"

" As I said, I was scared I'd mess everything up; I wanted to leave it to the experts."

" Still, there was plenty else you could've done—like going after the shooter maybe?"

" I didn't want to leave her alone. She needed someone there with her…to talk to…to keep her mind off the pain…to say 'goodbye' to in person."

" Well, maybe if you were better at your job, ' goodbyes' wouldn't have been necessary—did you ever consider _that?_ Oh, wait, I'd forgotten! _You're _not clever enough to have thought of that: so _stupid _that you froze completely when you saw a gun, so _cowardly _that you refused to chase down the man who shot down someone you've worked with for years, so _useless_ that you gave up trying to save my mother, because you wanted to 'leave it to the experts.'"

Lewis placed a firm hand on James's shoulder. " Sergeant Hathaway is the farthest thing from useless. He's one of the bravest, smartest, most capable men I've ever met."

As touched as Hathaway was by his inspector's devotion, the sergeant couldn't help but feel that Lewis's praise and loyalty were undeserved. Much as Hathaway hated to admit it, Chris was right; James was stupid, cowardly and useless, and perhaps if he hadn't been these things, Jean Innocent might still be alive.

Chris started to loose another scathing retort, but his father interrupted him. "You…you say that you were with her the whole time?" Mr Innocent said, peering at Hathaway through tear-stained eyes.

" To…to the very end."

" Did she…did she speak of me at all?" Hathaway could hear the desperation in the older man's voice.

" She asked me to tell you how it happened and to tell you also that she loved you. It…it was her last request."

Mr Innocent nodded, and Chris spoke up again. " What about _me_? I'm her son. Did she say anything about me?"

Hathaway hesitated. While Jean had mentioned Robbie, the chief constable, and her husband specifically, she hadn't said anything about her son. James was sure that this had been an oversight on her part, but convincing Chris of that assertion would be very difficult.

" She didn't…did she? That's why you haven't responded yet," the younger man added after a few moments of Hathaway's silence.

" I'm sorry, Chris," the sergeant said quietly. " I'm sure she would've if there'd been more time. It's…it's just…she…she went so fast." Hathaway had already cried so much today that he'd been sure that he was out of tears, but his body was now threatening to prove him wrong.

" Your mother loved you, Chris," Mr Innocent said from his armchair. " There's absolutely no denying that."

" I know she did. It's just…I wish I'd told her just how much_ she _meant to _me_."

" Me too," said Mr Innocent.

" Me three," Lewis added, and the two Innocents looked at him curiously. " She could drive me bloody crazy sometimes, but I always considered her a powerful ally and a valuable friend. Wish I'd told her that in person."

Of the men in the room, James alone had been able to say goodbye to Jean, but his farewell had been little better than no farewell at all. He'd wasted much of her precious time by telling her that stupid story of his once thinking she'd be a man. He should've spent the whole time talking about how wonderful she was and how much he'd cared for her. Better still, he should have let her speak for herself; instead he'd talked off her ear, until that ear could hear no more.

A profound silence then overtook the group, and each man handled it in a different way. Chris got up from his chair and began pacing about the room. Mr Innocent fiddled absently with his wedding band. Robbie continued to sit beside Hathaway with a hand still placed encouragingly on the sergeant's shoulder. James, meanwhile, stared fixedly at the ornate Turkish rug on the floor, determined not to meet the others' eyes—sure that if he did he'd release the tears he was currently trying to suppress.

Eventually, Mr Innocent spoke. " Where is she now?"

Acutely aware that Hathaway no longer felt like speaking, Lewis responded. " At the station mortuary. Even though we know exactly when and how she died, it's still procedure to have a post-mortem completed. It should be finished soon, though, and in the meantime, you can come…come… and see her."

Innocent's husband nodded. " I…I don't think we can…not…not _now _at least. Perhaps in a few hours?"

" I'm sure that would be fine. Now, if you don't mind, I think Sgt Hathaway and I will leave you alone now."

" Thank you for informing us." Mr Innocent said as he showed the two detectives to the door.

Robbie and James soon reached the car, and Hathaway was about to open the passenger side door when Lewis grabbed his arm. " James, I need you to promise you'll remember something. Innocent's son was angry and bitter—and rightly so—but he was _wrong._ There was nothing else you could have done for her—do you understand me?"

Hathaway jerked his arm out of Lewis's grasp. " Nothing apart from taking the bullet for her, you mean?"

" But James, you can't have…I mean you wouldn't…" the inspector said this more to convince himself than because he truly believed it. Something about the haunted look in his sergeant's eyes greatly disturbed Lewis.

" Maybe her life was worth more than mine is," Hathaway said darkly before entering the vehicle and slamming the car door shut.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_Three Days Later_

James Hathaway had always disliked queues. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid them whenever possible. He bought nearly all of his Christmas presents online so he wouldn't have to put up with crowded stores, and he carefully timed and mapped out his commutes to and from work to ensure that he'd hit the least amount of traffic possible.

The queue in which the sergeant was currently standing, however, wasn't one that he could so easily avoid. Funnily enough, he didn't really mind for once. It was oddly reassuring to have so many others in front of him and even more behind him—to know that Jean Innocent had meant something to each of these people, just as she'd meant something to James.

Only a few minutes ago, the vicar had concluded the vigil service and had invited the mourners to approach the casket if they wished to pay their respects to the deceased. At first, James had been annoyed at himself for not walking fast enough to secure a place in the front of the queue. However, he then reflected that it was better this way. He needed some more time to think—before he said goodbye for the final time.

_' It's not really goodbye, yet," _said a voice in the sergeant's head. _" There's still tomorrow."_

Tomorrow—the _funeral. _Hathaway wasn't even sure he'd be able to will himself to attend. The very thought of going made James feel physically sick. On the other hand, he didn't see how he'd be able to live with himself if he stayed home—if he missed out on any further opportunity to honour the memory of Jean Innocent.

A memory. That was all she was to him now—a memory and a corpse. There had been a time when she could think, could speak, could listen, could admonish, could praise, could shout (quite frequently at Lewis and Hathaway), could whisper (after excessive shouting had worn out her voice), could comfort, could agitate, could confuse, could enlighten, could laugh, could cry, could breathe, could _live_.

Those days were gone, and they wouldn't return, regardless of how passionately and persistently James wished and prayed for them. Even if it _were_ in his power to bring her back, he wouldn't have done so. Although the sergeant did not know the strength of the chief superintendent's religious convictions (or even if they had existed at all), Hathaway was nevertheless sure that Innocent was in Heaven. If this was truly the case, Jean was now enjoying her eternal reward in a beautiful place of light, joy, music, and peace. James wouldn't have dreamed of calling anyone from that—certainly not someone who deserved such a reward or someone who was a friend, and especially not someone who met both conditions as Jean had.

He knew that he should have been glad that Jean was in a better place now; despite this, but there was still a selfish part of him that would have given anything to have her back. He'd have welcomed the most scathing procedural lecture or even a suspension if only to indicate that everything had finally gone back to normal. He was no longer sure that life would ever go "back to normal" again.

As this devastating thought struck him, the sergeant suddenly found himself directly in front of Innocent's closed casket. He stared at it pointedly for a moment, fighting a strong urge to gently lift the lid so that he might look upon Jean's face one last time. However, a much larger and more sensible part of himself reminded James of just foolish this desire was. To do so would be horribly impolite and even more importantly, it would be terminally pointless.

She wouldn't be the same Jean Innocent he remembered. She'd be cold, pale, still. Still as _death_—for dead she was, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not. True, the morticians had probably cleaned her up—placing blush on her ashen cheeks, wiping the crimson bloodstains off her chest, clothing her in something clean and fresh, forcing her limbs into position for burial.

No, it was better that he couldn't see her now—for if he could, he might let himself buy into the illusion the mortuary workers had striven to create—that Jean was sleeping gently and would awake soon afterwards.

The thought then occurred to him that though he had finally reached the coffin, he still had no idea of what he wanted to say to Jean. So, he silently repeated an old prayer that he'd learned years ago in Sunday school.

"_Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen."_ He knew that this was insufficient, but at the moment, the proper words simply wouldn't come. It had been three full days since her passing, but perhaps, it was still too soon. Maybe the proper words would come with time.

Hathaway hoped very fervently that this would be the case—that he'd someday be able to eloquently express the complexity and intensity of his feelings. He wondered if she'd be able to hear him when he finally found his voice. As much as Hathaway wanted Jean to know the profound impact she'd had on him, he hated the idea of bringing her even a brief moment of anxiety—when she should have been free from all sorrow.

" Goodbye, Jean," he whispered before turning to Jean's husband and son who were standing diligently beside the coffin. The sergeant mechanically offered his hand to each man in turn. Chris merely nodded curtly and refused the handshake offered him, the pronounced scowl on his face making it very clear that he was still bitter towards James.

Despite his obvious and understandable grief, Mr. Innocent, managed to display a great deal more civility than his son. Though his eyes were very red and puffy, he nevertheless shook Hathaway's hand firmly and gave the sergeant a sad half-smile as he thanked James for coming. Oddly enough, Hathaway found this polite, sympathetic reaction to be far worse than Chris's accusatory glances.

The sergeant could've dealt with any anger directed at him. He was already furious enough at himself—and rightly so. Hathaway had full confidence that if he'd been a better cop or—at the very least a better man—Jean Innocent would still be alive and well.

But while he understood blatant hostility, he simply could not comprehend the friendly, supportive reactions of people like Mr. Innocent and Lewis. How could they do it? How had they managed to convince themselves that Hathaway wasn't to blame, when he was so obviously at least partly responsible? Far more likely, they _hadn't _convinced themselves at all. Far more likely, they knew that this was Hathaway's fault and had simply lied to spare James's feelings.

Didn't they know that there wasn't any need for that? That it was silly of them to keep pretending for his sake? That James was perfectly willing to accept his culpability if only they'd let him?

When Hathaway exited the church, he noticed that Lewis, who was waiting for him outside, was deep in conversation with the chief constable. Upon seeing James, Robbie excused himself from his companion and moved over to the sergeant.

" How…how was it?" Lewis asked. Due to his strong atheistic sentiments and profound discomfort in churches, the inspector had decided not to attend the vigil prayer service for Innocent, though he had offered to drive Hathaway to and from the service. Robbie was, however, going to attend the funeral tomorrow.

The sergeant pondered his superior's question for a moment. "It was…"he began but couldn't finish.

" Difficult?"

James nodded. " Yeah, though I suppose it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Parts of it were rather nice actually." Reluctant to linger any longer on this painful topic, he quickly changed the subject. "What were you and the chief constable talking about?"

The inspector shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Ah, ya know. Just…just stuff."

" What kind of stuff?"

"He wanted to know how…how we're all coping, and he…he…er…wanted my advice about appointing Innocent's replacement."

" Her _replacement_?" In his fury, Hathaway practically spat the word.

Lewis looked horrified with himself. " Jim, I didn't mean it like that. I meant to say 'successor.'"

'_No, Robbie. You meant what you said the first time,'_ the sergeant thought bitterly. Aloud, he said. " Doesn't he have any respect? Good God, she's not even in the grave yet!"

"I s'pose he's trying to be realistic. The station's got to have a good chief superintendent in order to run effectively, and the post can't stay vacant for much longer. Innocent is…_was…_ needed far too much."

The fact that this was the same sort of carefully-worded, highly practical answer that Jean herself might have given just made everything worse. "You're damned right she's needed! _I_ need her. I need her wit and her wisdom and her encouragement and her _friendship_. But I can't have them—can I? So all I'm asking is for some time to grieve for her in peace!"

Surprisingly, Lewis did not seem very taken aback by his sergeant's shouting. Instead he looked at Hathaway with a worried little frown on his face. "I know, James; I know. I've lost my fair share of friends and colleagues too. But …sadly, the world doesn't give coppers as much time to grieve as other people. We've got a very important job to do, and when we're…when we're distracted, we can be a danger to ourselves and to the people that need our help. The chief constable knows that, and he's just trying to do his job."

Hathaway wondered if the chief constable knew that it should have been him lying in that coffin, since he was the one who was supposed to have made the damned speech in the first place. The sergeant eventually reflected that the other man must not have known. If the chief constable knew that he owed Jean Innocent his life, he wouldn't be so keen to move on from her death.

Lewis spoke again. " Look, I know it's difficult to swallow, but…but in this job, ya have to learn to let people go. Otherwise, the constant sorrow…it'll consume you and come very close to destroying you. I…I learned that the hard way."

It was far easier said than done. Hathaway couldn't just let himself forget, and he wasn't even sure that was what he wanted: to pretend that he'd never heard her laugh or see her face get flushed with anger; to pretend he hadn't sought her advice and hadn't taken it or rejected it, depending on the circumstances; to pretend that she hadn't been an important part of his life and that her passing wasn't going leave a large hole in his heart; to pretend that she'd never existed at all?

Was that what it would take; was that really what was expected and required of him? Not for the first time in his career, Detective Sergeant James Hathaway found himself contemplating whether he was really cut out for this line of work.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_One Week Later_

Detective Sergeant James Hathaway picked up the bottle and poured himself some more red wine. He suspected that this was his third glass, though he'd long ago lost count. The sergeant wasn't even sure he _wanted _to know how much drinking he'd been doing lately; he'd probably feel guilty if he knew, and he already felt guilty enough as was.

Today, in particular, had been nothing short of brutal. For one thing, the newly instated Chief Superintendent Olivia Keene had arrived for her first official day on the job. Though he hadn't known her long, Hathaway already hated everything about Keene: her omnipresent smile, her merry freckled face, her insistence on being called "Liv" or "Olivia" rather than "ma'am," the unbearable enthusiasm she'd shown for her new position, the way she seemed to have forgotten the dreary circumstances that had brought her here, the fact that her bloody initials were "O.K." of all things.

The worst of it was that Hathaway was sure that if circumstances were different, he would've liked the new chief superintendent very much. He might have even fancied her; she was, at the most, only four or five years older than him and _was_ quite attractive with her bouncy red curls and lively green eyes. Yet, because she'd come as Innocent's replacement, he knew that he'd never be able to truly warm to her.

The sergeant remembered reading once that a "keen" was an old Irish term for a funeral dirge, and Hathaway couldn't help but marvel at the appropriateness of his new superintendent's name. Every time Hathaway so much as glanced in Olivia Keene's direction, it was as though he'd lost Jean Innocent all over again.

Having to work with the new chief superintendent had been difficult enough, but Hathaway's misery hadn't ended there. Thanks to a snapshot taken by a press photographer and the DNA retrieved from the red notebook found at the scene, the police had finally been able to track down Innocent's killer: Ray Hardgrave, a twenty-year old university student whose recent essay on twentieth century anarchist writers had greatly disturbed one of his English professors with its seeming glorification of the use of extreme violence.

After Hardgrave had been arrested and taken back to the station, Hathaway had insisted upon taking the lead for the interrogation, and Lewis had reluctantly agreed.

The sergeant drained his glass again as he remembered the smug smile on Hardgrave's face as he'd made a full confession. The young man was actually _proud_ of what he'd done, and he wanted the world to know that he'd done it. Not for the first time, Hathaway had found himself struck by the unfairness of the world. He hadn't really brought Innocent's murderer to justice, because Hardgrave didn't see this as a "punishment" at all. In fact, the attention the young student was receiving was exactly what he'd wanted all along.

Determined to make Hardgrave feel the same pain that Hathaway was feeling, James had allowed his anger to take him over completely. He'd shouted, he'd sworn, he'd thrown things, he'd done anything and everything he could think of that might make Hardgrave feel even an ounce of remorse or fear—to no avail. The sergeant had known that this behaviour was unacceptable, but he hadn't cared—not even when Lewis had forcibly dragged him out of the interrogation room.

" Stop, James, please. Please, calm down. It won't bring her back."

Even now, hours after the fact, Hathaway was still shocked that Lewis hadn't understood. It wasn't about bringing her back; it had never been about bringing her back. It was about making the bastard pay for taking her away in the first place. Ray Hardgrave wasn't the sort of man that James and Robbie arrested on a regular day—a jealous entrepreneur who'd murdered his ex-wife's new husband or a prominent Oxford don who'd offed the tabloid journalist blackmailing him. No, this man had taken away one of their own—a colleague, a boss, a _friend. _ He couldn't receive the same treatment as those other "ordinary" criminals; he didn't _deserve_ it.

Hathaway then glanced down into his now-empty wine glass. He knew he should stop drinking now; he'd consumed far too much already, and he highly doubted that he'd be able to deal with both Olivia Keene's cheery " hullo" _and _a hangover tomorrow morning. But he was angry and morose right now, and when he was angry and morose, wine was the only thing that made him feel even the tiniest bit better—though still far from his ideal state of mind. The drinking had helped him get through McEwan, Zelinsky, Crevecoeur Hall, and it was going to help him through this.

Once again, he picked up the bottle and filled his glass.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_Two Days Later_

DS James Hathaway stared with disgust at the pamphlet on his desk. _ A Guide to the OSPRE Inspector's Examination._ He wondered vaguely why he hadn't immediately tossed it in the rubbish bin where it belonged. Maybe he kept the small booklet, because it made him think of happier times, times when he'd actually reaped pride and joy from work rather than guilt and sorrow. But he couldn't look at the pamphlet without remembering that those times were over and that they would never return again.

The guide in question had been shoved into his hands only ten few minutes ago by Chief Superintendent Keene.

_" I've been looking through my predecessor's records. It's clear Jean Innocent thought very highly of you and of your abilities."_

_ As he'd thought very highly of her and her abilities, though Innocent's irrational fixation with procedure had often driven him up the wall._

_ " Your performance evaluations from DCS Innocent are all excellent as are those from Inspector Lewis. And that's to say nothing of your impressive case record."_

_ James fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair," I…er…thank you."_

_ " We need more officers of your caliber, Mr. Hathaway, particularly senior officers. I notice that you haven't tried for inspector yet, though you're obviously extremely well-qualified."_

_ " I'm afraid that's a matter of opinion." _

_ " Don't be so modest," Keene replied, a friendly smile engulfing most of her freckled face._

_ Hathaway wanted desperately to explain that it wasn't a question of modesty at all. If he was truly good at his job, he'd be sitting across the desk from a very different woman—one older, wiser, more reliable, more practical, more __**wonderful**__._

_ But as he __**wasn't **__truly competent, here he was now, sitting directly across from Olivia Keene—the undeniable physical evidence of his greatest failure—who continued to nod encouragingly in a failed attempt to delude him into thinking that all was still right with the world._

_ " Well, in any case, please consider what I've said about the examinations. And take this with you. It contains everything you need to know about the exams."_

A familiar voice drew James back to the present. " Oh, what's this now?" asked Inspector Lewis as he grabbed the pamphlet of Hathaway's desk. " Why didn't you tell me you were thinking of trying for inspector?"

" I'm not. It's just…. The new superintendent wants me to, and so she gave me this."

" James, if this is about me… don't worry about it. I'll be fine on my own…really. And I don't want you to think I'm holding you back from your dreams."

" This has nothing to do with you." The words came out much colder than he'd meant them.

" What is it then?"

" Already forgotten, then—have you? It hasn't even been two weeks, and you've forgotten!"

Lewis looked at his sergeant sadly. " No, James. I haven't forgotten. This has been very hard on all of us. But it's in the past now; leave it there."

It was all very easy for Robbie to say. _He _hadn't physically felt the life leaving her. _He _wasn't the one afraid to go to sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, he was forced to relive the hellish experience. _ His _sorrow wasn't intermingled with guilt.

Lewis walked over to Hathaway and placed an arm on the sergeant's shoulder. " I know she meant a lot to you…to all of us. But you can't spend forever grieving. You need to move on—to start thinking about your future. It's what she'd have wanted."

Before he could stop himself, James had shaken off Lewis's hand and was shouting furiously at the older man. "You have no bloody idea what she'd have wanted! In case you haven't noticed, she's _dead_, Robbie!"

" I know, James," Lewis said quietly.

" _Do you?_ I'm not so sure. Sometimes you act like she's gone on holiday or something and that all I have to do is act like a good little boy until she gets back! Well, I've got news for you; though you may pretend otherwise, she's not coming back."

" I know, James," Robbie repeated.

"Then, why do you keep pretending?"

"I'm not pretending anything!"

"No, I suppose you just never really cared about Jean to begin with." Hathaway's bitterness astounded even himself.

"Never _cared_?" Lewis asked, looking unsure of whether he was more hurt or angered at the sergeant's words.

James pretended not to have heard him. "I should've known all along; I mean, you didn't even go to her vigil service!"

" I told you; I always feel uncomfortable in churches…"

"That still doesn't change the fact that_ she_ would've gone to _yours_. But no, you couldn't even give her a half-hour of your precious time—could you? Where did you say you were going when I was at the church?" Hathaway paused for a moment in mock thought. " Oh, yes; you were going get a _coffee_! That's right, your boss and so-called 'friend' was lying in a coffin, and all _you_ could think about was whether to get de-caffeinated or regular."

"James, it wasn't like that I promise…"

Hathaway again ignored Lewis's protestations and continued. " And you were always complaining about her too." He gave a cruel but accurate imitation of Robbie's Geordie accent. "'Doesn't she have anything better to do then make our lives difficult? Why doesn't she go bother someone else? If she says one more word about the bloody press, I'll _kill _'er?'"

"James, you know I was just frustrated when I said those things. I liked Jean a lot, really I did..."

Deep down, Hathaway knew this, but that knowledge didn't stop him from proceeding. The truth was that he needed someone to hurt the way that he was hurting, someone to share his guilt and his pain, someone to _understand._

"Sometimes…sometimes friends get angry with each other, and sometimes…sometimes they say things they regret—things they don't really mean. But they never stop caring about each other."

The sergeant strongly suspected that Lewis wasn't talking only about his disagreements with Jean in the past, but also about Hathaway's own actions in the present.

" We…we still need to pick up that lab report from Hobson. So, why don't I go do that now? You stay here and try to calm down a bit. And…and if you still feel like talking when I get back, then….then we'll talk."

Hathaway glanced over to give Lewis his endorsement of this plan, but the inspector was already gone.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

She'd known something was wrong the moment he walked in the door. His quiet, half-hearted "hello" and weak attempt at a smile only proved what she'd been suspecting all along. Laura Hobson had known Robbie Lewis for over fifteen years and had loved him for at least eight of those years. As such, she felt that she knew him at least as well as she knew herself—if not _better_.

The pathologist didn't have to think very hard in order to determine what was bothering her old friend. Jean Innocent's death had affected them all very profoundly. Even Laura, who—truth be told—hadn't really known Jean well, couldn't help but share in the melancholy that was overtaking everyone around her.

However, no one had been affected by the tragedy quite so deeply as Hathaway. Hobson thought of the dark circles she'd seen under the young man's eyes for the past week-and-a-half, a clear indication that James wasn't sleeping well—_if _he was even sleeping at all. Even more disturbing was his sombreness. Gone was the light-hearted, witty, charming James Hathaway of the past, replaced by a pale, quiet ghost of the man he'd once been. He rarely smiled anymore, and as far as Hobson was aware, he'd never laughed—not since _that_ day. Instead, he went through the motions of his job almost mechanically, no doubt counting the hours until he could go home and do whatever it was that he did—drink most likely. He'd come in yesterday with an obvious hangover—though he'd tried to pass it off as a migraine.

It broke Laura's heart to watch her friend self-destruct in this manner, but she knew that it must have been ten-times more unbearable for Robbie. After all, the two of them were more than just colleagues; they were partners, and as such, they were practically family. Hobson knew that Lewis, for one, loved Hathaway like a second son and that if he were able, he'd have traded places with his sergeant in a heartbeat. He'd have eagerly accepted all the guilt, all the sorrow, all the anger, all the fear—in order to spare James from them. And that selflessness—that beautiful, eternal compassion—was what Dr Laura Hobson loved most about Detective Inspector Robert Lewis.

"Are you alright?" the pathologist asked finally, though she already knew the answer.

Lewis shrugged." I'm fine. Just…just having a bit of a rough day is all."

" It's James—isn't it?"

The inspector didn't deny it. "It's fine."

"No, it's not. Look, my break starts in about ten minutes. Why don't we go and get coffee? My treat."

"…Not coffee."

" Well, it's too early in the day for beer at any rate. We could go for a walk, maybe, and you could fill me on…on everything."

"I'd like that."

"Then, it's settled. I'll see you in a little while then."

_One Hour Later_

When Lewis arrived back at the station, he found Hathaway standing outside having a smoke. Nervous as he was about facing James after their fight, Robbie knew that he needed to do this and sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath and then walked over to stand beside Hathaway.

"I thought you said you were quitting," the inspector said, gesturing at the lit cigarette in his sergeant's hand.

Hathaway shrugged and took another long drag. "Why bother trying anymore? I've already proven myself a failure in all other respects."

"You're not a failure, James."

"Tell that to Jean Innocent." He dropped the cigarette and then angrily stamped it out.

The inspector stared at his sergeant for a long moment before answering. "Have you ever..." Lewis began but then cut himself off suddenly.

" Go on."

" Nah, it's…it's not my place to say."

" Tell me anyway."

Realising just how futile it was to argue with his sergeant, Lewis continued. "Have you… have you ever considered that you might be a bit too eager to accept the blame?"

Based upon the confused expression on Hathaway's face, the answer to that particular question was " no." The young man scrutinized his boss curiously for a moment before replying. "Why on earth would I do that?"

" I dunno… It's just you're always so harsh on yourself."

"Maybe I have good reason to be."

"What reason? Zelinsky? McEwan? Hopkiss? They weren't your fault either, James; they made their own choices."

"And what of Jean? _She _didn't choose this; she did nothing wrong."

"And neither did _you_—remember? You're not the one who shot her. Furthermore, you did all you could to help her."

"Still wasn't enough."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do actually."

"No, _you don't_. There's no way of knowing how things would have played out otherwise. You could've done everything right, and she still might have died. In any case, there's no use speculating on what might have been. You can't change the past.'

"Wish I could."

"So do I, lad; so do I." Lewis sighed, thinking of all the opportunities with Val and Morse that he'd wasted—especially that he'd never gotten to say goodbye properly to either of them. "But though we can't change the past, we can learn from it." The inspector took a deep breath before continuing. "I've been talking to Hobson about all this. She's…she's really worried about you, mate; we _both_ are."

The sergeant shrugged. "That's touching, Robbie, really it is. But this is something that I need to handle on my own. The two of you have already done all you can for me."

" I know, but maybe…maybe there's someone else that can do more." Hathaway stared at him confusedly. "Laura…Laura thinks you should consider getting professional help."

"What you mean… counselling?"

Robbie nodded. "Yeah."

"And what's your opinion of all this?"

"I…I think she might be right." He held up a hand as though to quell any of Hathaway's protests. "Look I … I know that counselling didn't work out in my case, but we're different people, Jim. And different things work for different people. I've heard wonderful things about people who've gone to a shrink. Why Innoc—er…a friend of mine once told me that counselling turned her son's life around. There's a chance that this could really help you."

"And if it doesn't?"

"At least, you can say that you tried."

The sergeant said nothing in reply, so Lewis tried again a few seconds later. "James, I know I'm not a doctor…or a psychologist, but even I can see that it's unhealthy for you to carry on this way. You need to talk to someone about this, and the sooner the better."

Hathaway still remained unresponsive, and so Lewis added one final thing before he turned to go. "Promise me you'll think about...about what I've said."

James gave a slight nod, and Lewis gave him a quick pat on the back. "That's all I ask, lad; that's all I ask."


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

_Two- and-a- half hours later_

'_You need to talk to someone about all this, and the sooner the better.' _

Robbie had been right about one thing. Hathaway did need to talk to someone—though not the general 'someone' that Hobson had had in mind. No, he was going to visit a very particular person—someone who'd always given him good advice in the past, someone who he respected and trusted, someone who he missed more than words could described.

He knelt down and placed the potted African violet he was holding beside the gravestone. Glancing around the site, he could see that his was far from the largest floral offering or the grandest, but he didn't much care. Simple as it was, he was sure that Jean would've liked his gift. Furthermore, he thought that a violet was especially appropriate.

A lot of his memories of her involved purple; it had been one of her favourite colours, and she'd worn it very frequently. He thought of Jessamine Matthews's art show, and how well Innocent had "scrubbed up" in an evening gown of this very shade. And would he _ever_ be able to forget the intense lecture she'd given him less than an hour later in that very dress?

Then, he thought of the dark purple jacket the chief superintendent had worn to many a crime scene in the winter months. Crevecoeur Hall stood out among these memories. He remembered being a bit short with her there—due to both the stress of the Zelinsky case and the unease he felt upon returning to his boyhood home. Thankfully, she'd forgiven him for his rudeness and had given him the space and time he required to sort those problems out on his own.

More than anyone else (except probably Robbie), Jean had understood that James had needed her in different ways at different times. Sometimes, he'd needed her to advise him, other times to merely listen to him without comment. And sometimes, like at Crevecoeur, he'd needed her to keep her distance.

This wasn't the case now. He needed to feel close to her again—physically and emotionally, and he needed her advice as well. But this was the nearest he'd ever get to either of those things again: kneeling beside her gravestone and hoping that she could somehow hear what he was about to say.

"Hello, Jean. I've come to you for advice again. You've always been able to help me in the past. Remember…remember Simon Monkford? You knew exactly what to do then."

The sergeant took a deep breath before continuing. "The new chief superintendent wants me to try for inspector, and at this point…at this point, I'm not even sure that I want to stay on the force—not… not without _you_ being there. But at the same time… what else would I do? What else _can_ I do? It's like you said during the Monkford case…I'm not exactly a 'breezy extrovert'—am I?"

Hathaway sighed. "There's more, though. Lewis and Hobson want me to go into counselling, and I…I feel like they're probably right. I haven't…I haven't really been taking the best care of myself lately. But still, what if…what if counselling makes all of this worse? What if it just intensifies my feelings of stress and sorrow and anger?"

" _Anger_…that's the other thing. Lately, I've just been so…so irritable about every little thing, and I want to stop but I just…I just can't. And it _scares_ me, feeling this way all day every day." He felt a flush of embarrassment come to his cheeks. "I made a…a spectacle of myself the other day when they brought in your killer, and that's putting it mildly. You'd have been so ashamed, so _disappointed_. You'd probably have suspended me for it, maybe even put me back in uniform—and you'd have been right to do so. But at the same time, this is the man that did this to me." The sergeant gestured at the gravestone. "… who did _this_ to us. And I can't help hating him; I can't help wanting him to suffer the way that I'm suffering. I know it's sinful and criminal of me, but…"

Hathaway took a few minutes to compose himself before continuing. "He hasn't been the only one I've been cruel to, though. There've been others…others who _don't_ deserve my anger directed at them but that feel the brunt of it anyway. Robbie and I…Robbie and I had a fight earlier today—only it wasn't a proper fight, not really. It was mainly me shouting at him, saying these awful things that I didn't really mean. And I could tell that I was really hurting him, but at the time, I…I think that was my goal all along. That…that's what scares me the most: the thought I actually _wanted_ to cause my best friend pain—if only so he'd understand my own pain. Am I really _that _far gone, Jean?"

The sergeant then found he could no longer contain himself and promptly broke down in tears. Suddenly, he felt a light breeze tickling the hairs on the back of his neck and for a moment, he could've sworn he heard her voice.

'_You're a great man, James Hathaway, and more importantly, you're a good one as well.'_

But he wasn't—was he? Not anymore. He'd lost whatever greatness and goodness he'd had the moment he'd let her die.

'_For someone who prides himself on being clever, you really can be astonishingly thick sometimes!'_

Now, he was almost sure he'd heard her. What was wrong with him? Hearing voices was a sign of madness—wasn't it? He sat up straight and looked around him but saw and heard nothing else.

Slowly, James got to his feet. "Anyway, thanks…thanks for listening, Jean."

As he turned to go, he heard one final thing. '_You've always risen to any and all occasions in the past…and remember __I'll be right here to help you the whole time."_

_A Few Hours Later_

Hathaway couldn't stop thinking about the experience he'd had by Innocent's grave. He still wasn't sure whether he'd actually heard her voice or not, but even if he hadn't, it was possible that she was still trying to send him some sort of message.

He suddenly remembered something one of his teachers at the seminary had once told him. " Whenever I'm confused or conflicted about anything at all, I take out my Bible, open it to a random page, and let my finger find a random verse. And funnily enough, most of the time…it's exactly the answer I needed."

Although James had been sceptical at the time, he couldn't help but feel slightly curious now. He definitely felt confused _and_ conflicted, and he certainly needed answers. So he walked over to his bookshelf, removed one of the many Bibles from it, and took it back with him to the couch. He closed his eyes and carefully opened the book, flipping through the pages randomly until he found one that just felt right. He moved his finger down the page, eventually letting it rest on a random line. Then, he opened his eyes and read…

'…_To comfort all who mourn….'_

Surprised, he flipped back to the prior page so that he could read the entire passage.

'_The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me _

_to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, _

_to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favour and the day of vengeance of our God; _

_to comfort all who mourn; to grant to those who mourn in Zion— to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.'_

After he'd finished reading, Hathaway found himself marvelling at how much lighter he felt. It was silly that a few lines of scripture should make him feel any better when so many other things had failed. But it _had _made him feel better, nevertheless. For the first time since _that_ day, James felt a small glimmer of hope. For the first time, he felt some confidence that he might be able to move on from this someday.

He knew that it wouldn't happen over night; it would still take months—maybe even years. But there were people that could help him through it: God, Robbie, Laura, maybe a counsellor or two, even—absent though she may be—Jean herself. They would be there for him, now and always, and he was finally going to _let _them help him.

THE END

_The scripture passage at the end is from Isaiah 61: 1-3 (Anglicized English Standard Version of the Bible). So, thanks to all who have read. This story popped into my mind ages ago and kept bothering me, so I had to write it down—even though the thoughts of killing Jean and breaking James both depressed me to no end. But anyway, thanks for taking the time to look this over—as I did put a lot of hard work and thought into it._


End file.
